


but good things don't come easy

by slyther_ing



Series: named for you (made for you) [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Denial, Flint typical violence, Fluff, Hogwarts Era, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Making Out, Oral Sex, Quidditch, gratuitous cursing because Marcus, how can you talk about these two without quidditch lets be real, loads and loads of pining, poor Marcus doesn't know how to deal with emotions, so much denial on Marcus's part, this was supposed to be short but then it wasn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 02:09:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7386505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slyther_ing/pseuds/slyther_ing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus Flint can't stop thinking about Oliver Wood - but he's trying to talk himself out of this one before it gets out of hand.</p><p>(In which Marcus attempts the art of denial, and Oliver is just not about that life)</p>
            </blockquote>





	but good things don't come easy

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Tricky" by Fitz and the Tantrums, because the lyrics just seem to fit our two favorite Quidditch Captains perfectly.
> 
> The storyline takes place in Harry's 3rd Year, but I did take liberties and switch up the line-up of the Slytherin Quidditch team for the sake of including Adrian Pucey - Pucey remains as Chaser, while Montague fills the third Chaser position.
> 
> Of course, Marcus and Oliver belong to JKR. Pity.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Marcus Flint isn’t sure exactly when Oliver Wood became a permanent fixture in his mind, but all he knows is as he’s sitting in Charms, all he can focus on is the nape of Wood’s neck three rows ahead of him. 

He might chalk it up to Charms being a hell of a bore (if only Flitwick would turn his silencing charm on himself and leave it that way), but the thing is: Oliver Wood plagues his thoughts far too often for him not to be slightly worried for his own sanity. The 7th year (actual 7th year, Marcus thinks a little bitterly) is now in many of the same classes. Not like Marcus ever really focused in classes anyways; professional Quidditch is his goddamn goal no matter what and he knows he can make it.

But now instead of spending the time devising up Quidditch plays, Marcus is sneaking glances at the brown haired boy. Wood is biting thoughtfully at his bottom lip as Flitwick reviews some concept, and Marcus watches as he chuckles softly when Percy Weasley mutters under his breath.

Wood’s eyes are twinkling a bit and Marcus feels an unfamiliar warmth spreading in his chest, which Adrian Pucey would say was –

No. No, it’s not a crush, for god’s sake, Slytherins don’t get crushes. No, Marcus tells himself resolutely, its more like an inconvenience, an annoyance. So what if he constantly replays Wood’s maneuvers in the air from their last practice match? He’s analyzing for weaknesses.

Right.

His little…focus…on Wood is making him too distracted during Captain meetings, where they need to sort out schedules, and Quidditch practices, and if Slytherin wants to win the cup this year, Marcus needs to get his shit together. He shoves Oliver Wood and his stupid, smiling face to the back corner of his mind and is determined to leave him there to collect dust.

Three rows in front of him, Wood gives a particular loud chuckle and Marcus groans in annoyance.

***

Classes finally conclude for the day and Marcus makes a beeline back to his dorm for his Quidditch equipment – they’ve got a slot for an hour and a half (not _nearly_ enough) before the Gryffindors take over the pitch, and he’s hell bent on putting the rest of the team through some paces. He doesn’t expect anything but the best from himself, and therefore they _all_ need to be at the top of their game.

Adrian Pucey and Miles Bletchley are lounging in the common room when Marcus swoops in, the pair arguing with Terence Higgs over recent statistics and if the Tornadoes will remain at the top of the League.

“Get your asses up.” Marcus yells over his shoulder at his two teammates.

“Didn’t know you were into their asses, Marcus.” Terence snickers and turns back to his homework as Adrian and Miles groan.

“Why, sad you missed out this past year?” Marcus shoots back with a purposeful leer, laughing loudly as Terence makes a show of gagging. Higgs hadn’t taken kindly to being replaced by Malfoy (“It’s more to do with who you replaced me with rather than the fact that I got kicked off.” He had explained coolly, watching the blonde boasting all over the common room), but they’ve reached a point where it can be joked about without it being a sore point.

Snakes have to stick together, after all.

It takes his friends far too long to get dressed, and Marcus ends up dragging Adrian out of the bathroom and forcing his Chaser to put on his shirt as they jog out of the Slytherin common room. The September air is cool, sun not yet setting, and little clouds in the sky – pretty much a perfect day for flying. Marcus is pleased, to say the least.

And if Malfoy (the little shit) can swagger over a little quicker, he thinks, then they’d actually get some shit done.

The hour goes by fast, the whole team putting themselves through drills with a focus that gives Marcus a twinge of pride. His Beaters have gotten better, Marcus decides, as he watches Bole almost knock Adrian’s head off. Maybe he won’t have to steal the beater bat from them all the time.

Pucey is lobbing the quaffle at him when he gets distracted by seven people wearing red and gold strolling onto the pitch; the quaffle catches him in his stomach and he wheezes a bit.

Oliver Wood raises a hand to his eyes. “Oi, Flint! Time’s up, get off our pitch.”

“Don’t think so, Wood.” He calls back, “So take your little darling Gryffindors back inside.” He grins, watching the Weasley twins bristle at being referred to as ‘little’.

Wood’s frown is deep enough to see from where he is. “We’ve got it at 6.” He taps his watch mockingly. “The big hand pointing to 3 means that it’s 15 minutes past, Flint.” The three girl chasers laugh behind their captain.

Marcus snarls, bristling more at the laughter than the comment. He gestures for his team to land. The grass crunches underneath his feet as he stalks up to Wood. “Snape gave us the pitch until 6:30, so unless you want to end up in the hospital wing before the first game, I’d suggest you fuck off.”

Montague is tapping his fist lightly against his palm, waiting for the promise of an altercation. Malfoy’s eyes are glittering malevolently, exchanging nasty looks with Potter. Pucey merely looks bored.

“McGonagall said 6:15. Obviously that giant bat didn’t get his times right.” One of the Weasley twins (Marcus doesn’t really care which) pipes up, swinging his own bat around leisurely.

“Don’t talk about Snape that way, you filthy blood-traitor.” Malfoy sneers, and the Weasleys move in unison towards his seeker. Marcus sighs internally and steps in front, blocking the Gryffindor Beaters from getting any closer.

“Control your precious little team, Wood.” He spits at the Gryffindor Captain, and he totally does not notice the jump in Wood’s jaw, no fucking way.

Wood scoffs, side-stepping Fred and George Weasley until he’s directly in front of Marcus, face a little too close. “Get some balls and control a fricking 13-year-old, Flint.” Wood shoots him a white, pearly grin. Malfoy makes a noise of contempt behind Marcus.

They’re roughly the same height, Marcus a couple inches taller, so now he’s so close to Wood that he can feel the heat radiating off the other boy, can see the anger in brown eyes flashing, that same goddamn set in the jaw, and it should be really, really wrong to find this as hot as he does. The internal panic starts to rise, and then he’s both pissed and turned on, and it’s all because of this stubborn asshole of a Keeper in front of him. He wants to punch Oliver Wood in his stupid perfect teeth.

So he does.

Wood veers back, clutching at his jaw. There’s a split second where their eyes meet, before he flings himself forward and tackles Marcus to the ground.

Marcus hears the Weasley twins whoop in the background before he gets decked in the face. Montague growls and attempts to lunge forward to help his captain before Bletchley tugs him back. One of the Gryffindor Chasers screams “Oliver!” and Malfoy is watching with wide, wide eyes, as Marcus gains the upper hand and knocks Wood down to the grass.

Potter looks horrified from where he’s gaping – probably never seen his Captain put in his rightful place, Marcus thinks nastily, before Wood’s nails dig into his forearm and he gives a yelp of pain. But he’s still resting on Wood’s abdomen, so he pulls back his fist –

Only to get pulled off by the combined efforts of Miles and Adrian, the latter hissing into his ear about _are you insane Flint, do you want to come back another goddamn time?_

Maybe Pucey has a point, but that doesn’t stop Marcus from throwing one last punch at Wood. He comes back to his surroundings, blood still pounding in his ears, glaring as Johnson, Spinnet, and Bell keep Oliver from engaging further.

The Weasley twins look vaguely disappointed that there hadn’t been more bloodshed.

“Stay the fuck away from me.” Marcus finds himself hissing at Wood, shoving Adrian away so that he’s standing on his own again.

 Wood snorts, lip split and bloody. “Clearly, you’ve never learnt about civility.”

Suddenly, all the fight drains out of Marcus’s body – he’s still angry as a bull, no shit, but he doesn’t want to deal with the stubbornness and the back and forth and if he can’t punch Wood’s face to a pulp, get to _touch_ him even if it’s to hurt, then he doesn’t want to be anywhere near the Keeper.

“Take the bloody pitch.” He’s fed up with trading barbed insults, fed up with looking at Oliver Wood in the face, fed up with _himself_ for wanting to wipe the blood off of those pouty ass lips. So he brushes past Wood forcefully, relishing how the slighter man stumbles back a bit.

“We’re just leaving?” Malfoy calls incredulously, but Montague knocks him into motion, the rest of the Slytherin team following suit with calls from their rivals trailing behind them. He pretends he doesn’t see Wood’s incredulous expression – never once has the Gryffindor seen Marcus Flint back down from an altercation.

Marcus can feel the glares of his team mates on his back as they lope back to their common room, but he doesn’t really give a shit – at the end of the day, he’s taller, stronger, and he’s Captain, which means they all still know their place. Slytherin runs on hierarchy and Marcus Flint has created a wide enough berth around him that fear and respect mingle in people’s opinions of him. They know not to mouth off.

Except for Malfoy, apparently.

The smaller blond is muttering under his breath about _captains_ and _bloody Potter_ and _thought Flint would be tougher than that._

Marcus turns abruptly, forcing Malfoy to stop. “You got something to say, say it out loud.”

Malfoy glares, pointy chin lifted, grey eyes narrowed. “Nothing,” he says disdainfully, “Just it almost seems like you left Wood off a little too easy – didn’t know you had a soft spot for a _Gryffindor_.”

Marcus flinches internally, and something hot and bitter courses through his chest. Before Malfoy can take another breath, Marcus pins him against the stone wall, not caring that the younger boy is now struggling to breathe. None of his other teammates dare make a move – Marcus’s temper is infamous, after all – but there’s definitely tension fizzling in the air. They know Malfoy’s stepped out of line.

He lowers his face to shocked grey eyes. “What the fuck did you say?”

Malfoy chokes a little under his forearm.

“Flint,” Bletchley’s cautious voice calls out, “Unless you have a reserve seeker somewhere, I’d suggest you don’t kill the little git.”

“We can just get Higgs back.” Marcus says, almost good naturedly, and Malfoy’s eyes widen in panic at how nonchalant his captain sounds.

Marcus knows he won’t actually lay a hand on Malfoy – he’s a bloody third year after all, and Lucius Malfoy is too much a threat. And Miles is right – regardless of his attitude, Malfoy’s still a needed seeker. Sadly. But he still likes to see the brat squirm.

“Relax, Flint, I-I was just joking.” Malfoy wheezes a bit.

“Marcus.” Adrian’s voice is sharp, and they can all hear the approaching steps of students leaving the Great Hall from dinner. A flicker of hope flashes across Malfoy’s face, quickly reigned in, but Marcus catches it.

“This little fight, Malfoy, gets out to no one, for the sake of saving your own face. Understood?” He hisses.

The blond nods sullenly where he’s held, and then Marcus releases him with little more than a toss. He doesn’t bother checking on his Seeker after the boy stumbles a bit, instead heading up to his dorm. Pucey and Bletchley are smart enough not to follow after him into the 7th year dorms, too used to their Captain’s thunderous expression.

Marcus throws himself onto his bed, not bothering to take off any of his gear because fuck. Fuck. He’d been happy steeping himself in denial, been alright with talking himself into believing it’s a rivalry but no – one snarky comment from a boy five years his younger and he’s been pulled out of his little hiding space forcefully.

The last thing that Marcus wants to admit to himself is that he has a stinking crush on Oliver Wood. But he does. It makes him feel gross, and out of his skin because emotions? All of these weird possessive instincts? They’re not what Marcus usually deals with. Usually all he thinks about is Quidditch strategies and plays, ways to get into the big leagues, how to get rid of his homework fast enough to get onto the pitch. Not the feeling of his thighs straddling Wood’s torso.

Marcus lets out a groan, shoving his face into his pillow. Adrian’s finally knocking about behind him, and the clattering of his dorm mates makes him more irritated.

Who is he even kidding? He wants Oliver Wood, badly, and might as well turn in his tie and become a Hufflepuff. Was it even a recent revelation? Marcus shudders at the idea that he’s been _pining_ for longer than he’s realized. That’s something Parkinson and her giggling gang do – not big brutes like him.

He shoves off his boots, ignoring Adrian’s worried glance, and reburies his face into his pillow.

It’s not even the fact that he’s _fucking gay._ He’s known that, has noticed that since he started really looking in the locker rooms, and the hallways, and at Cedric Diggory’s goddamn pretty boy face. Not that he’ll ever be letting his parents know, but he’s already gotten over that particular life crisis.

It’s the fact that it’s Oliver Wood and anything Gryffindor related spells trouble with a capital T.

Fuck, he doesn’t even know if Wood _likes guys_.

Adrian finally clears his throat, putting his book to the side. “Marcus, you alright?”

He doesn’t bother addressing Adrian’s question, instead picking at the mud that’s embedded itself into his gloves. He’s told Wood to stay away, and it’s not like the rival Keeper would do anything different. There’s very little possibility that anything could happen and it feels like a blow to his stomach – that he might actually _want_ something to happen.

Adrian scoots his chair a little closer and tries again. “Mate, you’re glaring at your gloves like they’ve just said Quidditch is canceled for all eternity.” The blond looks away a little shiftily. “Look, don’t mind what Malfoy said, alright?”

Marcus just grunts.

Adrian sighs loudly, obviously put out by Marcus’s inability to talk like a proper human being.

“Flint, I literally don’t care if you’re after Wood’s ass.” Because while Pucey may have slightly more tact than the rest of the seventh year Slytherins, he wants to go to bed soon and having Flint groaning and mumbling to himself and basically throwing a giant tantrum doesn’t do his sleep any good.

It gets a reaction out of Marcus, however, as much as the Chaser beguiles it. “What the fuck, Pucey, I’m not -”

“You can steep in your denial all you want but I saw the way you looked at him before you, y’know, bashed his face in.” Adrian says bluntly, and Marcus grumbles because Pucey’s probably the closest thing he has to a best friend and the brunet is just a little too good at reading people.

You have to be, to be a Slytherin, but it’s not something Marcus looks for in people that he’s not hell bent on making life hell for.

Marcus throws himself back onto his bed. “I just don’t know why.” He growls and there. He’s admitted it out loud. He has a thing for Oliver Wood and now he has to face the consequences.

Adrian shrugs. “Nobody knows _why_ they like someone. They just do.” He eyes Marcus with a smirk. “It’s probably something to do with all that tension on the Quidditch pitch, though.”

Marcus hurls a pillow at Adrian, who dodges it with a laugh.

“C’mon Captain. At least it’s Wood. Be thankful it’s not Percy Weasley.”

Marcus sighs with his head buried under the covers. He supposes Adrian does have a point. 

***

Admitting his stupid _crush_ , as Adrian insists on calling it, out loud doesn’t stop Marcus from avoiding Oliver Wood for the next three days. They have a handful of classes together, but instead of settling in his usual seats (usually a couple of rows behind Wood), Marcus chooses to fence himself into a corner. A couple choice glares at the girls who usually sit there sends them the proper message of leaving him the fuck alone.

Adrian says he’s sulking but he won’t admit to that.

Wood shoots him weird looks throughout class, no doubt used to the needling threats and small hexes flung his way from the older boy. He catches Marcus’s eye in Potions on Friday, but Marcus looks away before the blush on his face can rise. Goddamnit, what was he, a second year Hufflepuff? Might as well write some love poetry if this blasted thing continues.

Looking down, he notices he’s crushed his salamander eggs. Snape swoops by with a contemptuous glance.

“You will have to pass this class, Mr. Flint, if you wish to actually leave this school before you reach the age of twenty. I advise you pay more attention.”

Marcus swears under his breath. Fucking Snape.

Wood’s still glancing at him, eyes questioning and eyebrows slightly raised. Marcus throws his useless supplies in the trash and begins the tedious process over again. He grits his teeth as he realizes he can’t avoid Wood’s seat on his way to grab more of the proper ingredients. Marcus makes do with leaving as much space as possible between them when he does pass by. There. No unnecessary blushes.

“He’s doing it again.” He overhears Wood hiss to Percy Weasley as he passes by, who’s hair is standing on end from the fumes in the classroom.

“Who?” The Head Boy mutters, too focused on the bubbling cauldron in front of him to bother with his Potions partner.

Marcus’s curiosity is piqued, much to his own disgruntlement, and he tries to tear himself away from side-eyeing the brunet, before he hears, “Flint’s avoiding me again” fall from Oliver’s lips with an expression that almost looks sad.

He can’t help but amble around grabbing supplies for longer than he needs to (much against his own common sense, and Pucey’s shooting him weird looks from the back of the classroom) and try to catch more of the conversation.

Weasley sniffs. “Why is that a problem? I’d have thought you’d be glad to have that oaf off your back.”

Wood shrugs, chopping up newt tails with little focus. “I dunno. It’s just weird, that’s all.” Marcus sees the Keeper glance around shiftily, and he digs into the glass containers a little rougher, pretending all his attention is focused on getting what he needs, rather than eavesdropping.

 _Like a lovesick fool,_ the voice in his head that sounds strangely like Adrian snicker. He makes a note to punch Pucey once they’re out of class.

“Don’t you think he looks a little bothered these days? He’s always so jumpy when I run into him.” Wood mutters to Weasley, after seemingly having a long internal debate.

Percy stares back at Wood as if the Keeper had taken too many bludgers to the head and was now spouting nonsense. Which Marcus would agree with, if he weren’t the subject at hand.

He catches Weasley pushing those giant ugly glasses up his nose. “Oliver, I don’t pay attention to what that great brute does. Why do you care, anyways?”

Marcus talks himself into thinking it’s just the trick of the dimly lit classroom, because there is no way in hell Oliver Wood just _blushed._ He’s seeing things, he has to be. Marcus blinks his eyes hurriedly, but no, pink is still staining Wood’s cheekbones, and he tears his gaze away before the pair of Gryffindors can catch him staring.

It’s another half an hour before the class ends, and Bletchley manages to redeem their failed potion to by taking charge (“Not just your ass on the line here” his classmate hisses).

Marcus trails behind Weasley and Wood, the latter still muttering into his fellow Gryffindor’s ear with a ferocity that would make most people conclude that the Captain was talking about Quidditch. Marcus knows better – at least, he hopes he knows better.

 _It’s kind of pathetic to hope,_ Adrian’s voice teases again in his head. Marcus wallops his friend on the back in retaliation.

“What the bloody hell was that for?” Pucey yelps.

“Your voice is annoying.”

He ignores Adrian’s disgruntled response, attention once again caught by Wood, who’s now been latched onto by the Weasley twins. They needle their older brother for a couple moments, before one of them says, in a stage whisper, “So – what’re we doing to get back at the Slytherins for Monday?”

Marcus feels himself tensing; that’s still his team, and like hell he’ll let the Gryffindors do anything.

Okay, they can take Malfoy for all he cares, but.

“Nothing.” Marcus can barely catch Wood’s nonchalant answer over the bustling in the hallways. “Look, whatever, let’s drop it and just focus on practicing for next Saturday, alright?”

“Drop it?” One of the twins says incredulously.

“Flint punched you in the face!” The other supplies.

Percy Weasley looks strangely over at Wood. “I thought you were annoyed he was avoiding you. Mauling you is not ignoring, Oliver.”

“He’s been ignoring me from after that!” Marcus catches himself from laughing out loud at how indignant Wood sounds, but they haven’t noticed him behind them yet, and he’s not about to give that away.

Fred and George exchange a glance, before throwing Wood identical smirks.

“Georgie, I think our dear Captain here is feeling a little neglected.”

“Right you are, Fred. Probably missing that –ahem- rougher touch.”

Marcus almost chokes on his own spit, because are those two insinuating…? No, they must be poking fun. That’s it. That’s all it is. There’s no way in hell Wood would even care, and him caring now must be some passing moment of insanity.

Wood stays quiet, taking the twins continued needling, as Percy Weasley stares on skeptically.

One of the Weasley twins’ glances over his shoulder, and says “Hey, speak of the devil, Flint’s-” but before he can finish, Marcus has already turned the corridor, disappearing almost as quickly as the fleeting smile he was sure he saw pass over Oliver Wood’s lips at the mention of Marcus’s name.

 ***

He can’t sleep.

It happens, sometimes, when there are too many assignments, and his father’s letter hold traces of affairs he’d rather not get involved in, or when he’s doubting whether he can really make it onto the national field.

There’s never really one thing. Just a litany of things that run around in his head, no real coherent thought besides _tension_ and _stress_ and he wants relief from it all.

So he sneaks out and flies, because the night air is always a remedy. Nothing drowns out the world like flying does, and Marcus clings onto it, feels the wind fill his lungs and breathes a little better. Doesn’t feel like tearing down everything in sight, doesn’t relish the breaking of objects in his fists quite as much.

The night is cloudy, air sharp and cold, and his hands stiffen a bit without heavy gloves to keep them warm, but Marcus is enjoying the comfort of being in the air too much. If he could spend every waking hour in the air, he could. Takes him far away from spats between parents and expectations – all he wants to do is fly for as long as his body will let him. 

He loops up around the goalposts, zips closer to the stands. A blur catches his attention out of the corner of his eye and it takes two heartbeats for him to realize that the other student who fancied a night flight is the one person he’d rather not see.

Wood’s flitting around the stands on the far end, but Flint just knows he has that look on his face. _The_ look. The look that says focus, determination, and ferocity as the Keeper executes a series of twirls around the opposing goalposts.

Marcus almost bashes his head into the handle of his broom out of sheer desperation. Why the fuck won’t Wood just leave him alone?

He has half a mind to just turn tail and land, return to his bed, before Wood can spot him, but the anger at someone else stepping into his _private, quiet_ moment is welling up, even amidst the other part of him that’s impressed by Wood’s flying. And it’s too late now, anyways, because the Gryffindor Keeper has spotted his hulking figure already, and stops three meters away from him in the air.

“What are you doing, Flint?”

Marcus sneers. “Swimming; what the fuck does it look like?”

“No need to get snippy. Honestly, you’re geared up like a bloody spring all the time.” Wood’s speaking amicably, as if the last time they had been face to face didn’t end up in a fist fight.

“Shove off, Wood. You don’t know shit.” Marcus shoots back. Marcus wonders, half-amusedly, how Wood would react if Marcus tackles him off of his broom right now. It’d be a steep drop, and no doubt they’d wind up half dead but if that’s the only way to grab Wood’s attention, then so be it.

Wood’s just staring at him now, brown eyes glittering in the dark, and his face is set resolutely, mouth a straight grim line. “You’re right.” He says, and it’s so soft that Marcus almost misses it amidst the howling of the wind. “I don’t know anything about you, really.”

His chest pounds, and Marcus’s mind blanks, because he doesn’t _know_ what Wood meant, doesn’t have time to react to the comment mentally, even though his stomach is doing twists. The Gryffindor veers off quickly before Marcus can say anything back, starting to circle the pitch on his broom in doing laps.

The next time he passes by Marcus, he shoots a challenging glance at the Slytherin.

Marcus grits his teeth, takes up the challenge, and speeds off after the Keeper. The wind’s picking up as they circle each other, always on the other’s tail and storm clouds seem to be gathering now – Marcus doesn’t know how long they’ve been out there, racing, he just knows his hands are frozen and the wind stings, and Wood’s mouth is still set in a deep frown.

They’re not even really racing, but in principle, they are, because it’s Marcus Flint and Oliver Wood and they’ll be damned if it’s not a competition.

A tell tale roll of thunder echoes across the pitch, and before the two of them realize, rain’s shattering down on them, cold autumn rain that bites to the bone. Marcus almost loses his grip on his broom, and the lurch in his stomach forces him to slow down, regretfully, as Wood takes the opportunity to speed past him.

Marcus is sure that Wood can barely see with the speed he’s going at, flattened on his broom. The droplets hitting his face are affecting his own vision, and he’s not going half as fast as Wood. Yet the Keeper keeps circling, faster and faster, and everything in the younger boy’s posture screams agitation, screams annoyance and coiled up like an explosion waiting to happen.

Nothing explodes, but the crack that resounds when one of Wood’s shoulder hits the goalposts is similar enough.

Marcus watches in horror, as Wood loses control of his broom from the hit, and spirals quickly downwards into the ground, slipping off in the process. His body looks tiny, unmoving, from where Marcus is frozen in the air, and the Slytherin curses loudly before urging his own broom forward.

Wood’s not moving when Marcus manages to land, shoulder set unnaturally. His chest is hollow and tinny, because fuck fuck fuck _fuck_. Marcus has seen enough Quidditch injuries before, been on the receiving end of more than a fair share himself, but it’s late, and Hooch isn’t around and Oliver’s pale and his lips are blue and Marcus wants to shake him awake, make sure he’s still breathing.

His heart twinges, and Marcus doesn’t have time to think about about what _that_ means. Instead, he throws down his broom to haul up Wood’s unmoving body – a difficult feat because fucking hell, the Keeper is heavier than he looks and the solid muscle underneath his hands is making Marcus flush, much to his chagrin.

The only way to carry the Gryffindor without shifting the shoulder even more is to practically bridal carry him back into the castle and Marcus thanks whatever lucky stars that nobody’s around to see this spectacle.

It’s not even romantic, for fuck’s sake. Wood’s only a couple inches shorter than him, so honestly, it’d just be a laughingstock of a sight.

His shoes squelch and he shivers violently as he heads towards the Hospital Wing, walking as fast as he can with a whole other person in his arms. By some stroke of luck, Filch and his blasted cat don’t seem to be hovering around the corridors at this time. Marcus can feel a steady heartbeat against his own chest, so at least – well, at least he hadn’t killed Oliver Wood.

Not that he had forced Wood to go that fast, the bloody idiot, but Marcus still feels the guilt coat his stomach with iron because he’s pretty sure all that agitation, all that pent up annoyance, was because of him.

Marcus is a couple yards away from the doors of the Hospital Wing when the body he’s holding shifts, groaning. He almost drops Wood from surprise, but manages to keep any more movement from happening by gripping tighter.

“What the-” The Gryffindor mumbles, and then Marcus stares down at unfocused brown eyes, no doubt hazy from the pain.

“Uh.”

“Flint?”

Wood stares back at him, and the silence is thick and awkward before Wood starts wriggling again in his grasp, even though Marcus is pretty sure at least a rib has been broken. Marcus drops his arm from the Keeper’s body, and Wood manages to haul himself to his feet with grim determination.

The brunet coughs. “Er, I- I think I can walk myself.” He lurches forward a couple of steps, clutching at his side with his unharmed arm. 

Marcus pretends it’s just a trick of the light that makes Wood’s cheeks pinker than usual.

“Pretty sure you can’t,” Marcus mumbles back, “But alright.”

Wood stumbles as he attempts to push open the Hospital Wing doors, and Marcus’s arm shoots out to keep him upright on reflex, gripping the other boy’s upper arm.

“Honestly, you’ll actually kill yourself if you try to do everything by yourself.” Marcus says, exasperatedly, pushing the doors open for his rival.

Wood snorts, face grimacing in pain as the sound no doubt causes something to shift. “Wouldn’t that please you?”

Before Marcus can admit that no, he needs Wood alive for at least some competition at the same level, Madame Pomfrey bustles out of her office, dressing gown fluttering around her. Her face is set in the tell-tale stern look that lets them know they’re in for a lecture.

“Oh for goodness sake, Mr. Flint! What have you done to him now?”

“I didn’t do anything, I swear!” Marcus protests, and Pomfrey shoots him a skeptical glare before whisking Oliver away to the nearest empty bed.

“No, he’s right, we weren’t fighting.” Oliver says, sucking in his breath harshly as Pomfrey presses down on his shoulder to check the damage. Pomfrey raises an eyebrow in search of an explanation, to which he replies shortly, “Flying accident.”

Pomfrey still looks skeptical, but Oliver’s impending injuries are more a concern to her, it seems, than what the two Quidditch captains were up to. Which is all well and good, because Marcus would prefer not to get any more detentions for this month. Especially not when he had hauled Oliver Wood’s ass to the Hospital Wing just now, the ungrateful prick.

“It looks like a shattered collarbone, Mr. Wood, and a few broken ribs on your left side.” Pomfrey sniffs reproachfully, pouring out a thick viscous liquid into a clear vial and handing it to Oliver, who downs it quickly. Marcus is familiar with the expression on Wood’s face – Quidditch comes with its injuries, and the grimy taste of potion never gets better over time.

Wood looks like he’s trying to quell down the panic that anybody with eyes could see flashing in his face. “How long will this take to heal? Because I have the pitch all booked next week and the match is coming up-”

Pomfrey shuts him off with a stern glance and a promise that he’ll be all set in two days, which Wood takes with a grimace (two days of quality practice time down the drain, no doubt) but better than being out of commission for the whole week.

Marcus snorts loudly. “Do you only ever think about Quidditch, you obsessed bastard?”

“Shut up, Flint – don’t tell me that’s not why you repeated a year.”

And Marcus bristles at Wood bringing that up; but it’s true, there’s no denying it. He’d been so hell bent on winning, and proving himself for the professionals and the scouts, that he’d let all of his classes and grades swirl down the drain. Smart? No. But he’d caught the eye of the Magpies' scout and with the heavy promise of a leg into the big leagues as long as he’d passed this year, he’d do it all over again.

He sneers back at Wood, who’s staring at him defiantly. “There were scouts. I had a fair shot so I went for it. You’re good enough to know that you’d do the same.”

Wood blinks at him, visibly taken aback, and Marcus bites the inside of his cheek before he can say anything else because _fuck_ , he’d paid the opposing team Keeper a compliment. Something completely out of character, and nothing _nice_ is supposed to spill from his mouth, and now Wood will figure him out –

Pomfrey rushes back in with an armful of towels, nagging them about getting caught in thunderstorms, and she effectively dissolves the awkward silence that had fallen between the two. Marcus has never been more thankful for the matron’s presence, even more so than that time he’d taken a Bludger to the head.

The same moment some sickly Second Year is ushered in by a Prefect, Wood lets out a gigantic sneeze, further highlighting Pomfrey’s point of “going to get a chill and then we’ll see who can play well with a head cold, hmm Mr. Wood?”

The matron points a finger at Marcus, who suddenly has a towel thrown into his hands. “Make yourself useful and dry off Mr. Wood over there, before he actually dies from missing a match.” She then turns to lead the Second Year gently to a bed on the other end of the Hospital Wing.

Marcus swallows roughly. No way in hell is he letting Pomfrey strong arm him into getting within five feet of Oliver Wood. It’s one thing when the bastard’s unconscious, but having to physically touch him, feel his warmth underneath his palms while the Keeper is awake completely negates all the avoiding he’s done over the past three days.

No, he thinks, as Pomfrey waves her wand at him threateningly.

No, he repeats stubbornly as Pomfrey physically drags him over to Wood’s side.

Fucking hell, _no_ , Marcus panics, as Wood glares up at him halfheartedly, but the boy is shivering and that twinge of his heart that he got back on the Quidditch pitch reappears with a vengeance. Before he knows it, he’s reaching out with towel in hand and starting to dry off his long time rival.

God, all former Slytherins must be turning in their grave right now. 

Wood’s cringing at the rough way Marcus is drying off his hair, but he really could care less because he’s adamantly trying to avoid looking at the younger boy (not boy, honestly, almost man). Wood can’t do much with a shattered shoulder, so he’s just muttering curses when Marcus gives a particularly rough tug. 

“I know you detest me and all, but could you lighten up a bit?” Wood bites out. Pomfrey is off preparing his splint and dealing with the snuffling Second Year, and not there to save Marcus from responding with an even more aggressive toweling. 

Marcus is trying to avoid looking, trying to avoid making eye contact with Wood because this act in itself is oddly intimate - too much for two people who’d spent the most part of their years injuring each other both on the pitch and off. He’s torn between lashing out at everything Wood mentions and wanting to pet the petulant boy in front of him – puppy-dog eyes seems to be Wood’s forte, in place of the resting bitch face most Slytherin’s possess.

Something compels him to clear the table, however. “I don’t _detest_ you.”

Wood rolls his eyes. “Oh sorry, I meant hate. Want to punch my face bloody. Loathe the very thought of me.” His voice sounds oddly bitter to Marcus’s ears.

“You’re wrong.” The words slip out before Marcus can bite his tongue, and it’s as if they’re hanging in the air, waiting for the bubble to burst. _Wood’s smart enough to put two and two together_ , Marcus yells at himself, _you fucked up, you fucked UP._

He feels the towel he’s holding get shifted away by Wood.

“…Marcus?”

And the way Wood says his first name, all light and confused with that Scottish accent, forces Marcus to look down at the Keeper in front of him.

He regrets it instantly – because they’re only a couple inches away from each other and he can see tiny raindrops still clinging onto Oliver’s long, long eyelashes, and Oliver’s lips are a little chapped and tinged blue from the cold and Marcus has the overwhelming urge to seal his own mouth over his rival’s, kiss and nip and bite at it until those lips become warm and soft and pliant. There’s a tiny smattering of freckles on Oliver’s nose that he’s never noticed before, and _god_ , if Marcus could still deny the fact that he was _so fucking g_ ay until now, all that talk would have flown out the window.

(It doesn’t escape his notice that his brain has started referring to his rival as Oliver now. A response to the tug at his chest when hearing the Keeper say his first name, for maybe the first time he can remember.)

Oliver is staring at him as if he expects something, but Marcus is so torn between going for what he really, really wants, and running far away from this situation. Change his name, move to Bulgaria, live as a Muggle even, if it meant his greatest want and greatest fear wasn’t holding his stare so intensely.

They’re still so _goddamn close._

Something seems to click in Oliver’s warm brown gaze and then his face is moving closer and closer and Marcus can feel himself caving, crumbling, giving in to what he so desperately wants to get a taste of.

But the sound of Madame Pomfrey rushing back in tears Marcus back to the situation, and he stumbles back quickly, almost tripping on his own foot. The towel ends up landing over Oliver’s head from Marcus’s flailing arms.

“Now really, Mr. Flint, would you like to suffocate him as well as break his collar bone?” Pomfrey scolds, removing the wet towel and throwing it to the side.

Oliver gives a derisive laugh. “Towels aren’t pillows, Madame Pomfrey. I’m sure Flint over here could think of a better plan.”

Marcus dares a look at Oliver in the midst of Pomfrey’s chiding and tutting. The Keeper’s face is once again closed off and wary, jaw clenched. Brown eyes are purposefully looking over his shoulder, and Marcus doesn’t know whether the nausea he’s feeling is from lack of sleep or because he wants a do-over of the moment just seconds before.

Pomfrey sighs, whisking the wet towels away out of sight.

“You two might as well make the Hospital Wing your second home, with how often you’re here. And on account of each other as well!” She turns a sharp eye on Marcus, who rolls his eyes. “And Mr. Flint. Stay here until I can check you over for anything.”

“I’m not the one who fell off my broom!” He says, but she’s flitted away towards the sounds of retching from the other end of the infirmary.

He has half a mind to just leave, but the other half can’t seem to bear to depart from Oliver’s side just yet. He settles for sitting awkwardly in the chair besides Oliver’s bed, telling himself adamantly that he’s only staying to avoid the future wrath of Madam Pomfrey. She’s going to be fixing them up a lot, after all, with the upcoming Quidditch season already promising to be brutal, so there’s really no benefit in pissing her off.

Sure. Denial. He can do this.

Except then Oliver’s clearing his throat and Marcus feels more than sees the short glances the Keeper is sending his way. He crosses his arms sullenly, feeling the wet fabric of his robes tugging at his broad shoulders, and refuses to meet Wood’s gaze.

“So – uh, thanks. Again. For bringing me in.” Oliver says nonchalantly.

Marcus grunts in response.

“I mean, would probably have frozen out there, and there’s no fun playing against a popsicle now is there?” Oliver tries again, and Marcus really doesn’t want to respond but the laugh that escapes him causes a grin to split across the brunet’s face.

He huffs quietly. “Shut up, Wood, I’m not here to make friends.”

“I’m not _making friends_ , I’m bored and stuck here with you, so we might as well talk, right?” Oliver shoots back at him, and his voice suddenly carries the same bitter tone beforehand. Marcus wonders, then, why Wood was being so amicable, but then – “As long as we’re here, whadya think are the chances Bulgaria gets to the World Cup next summer?”

Marcus can’t help staring at him. “Really? You wanna talk Quidditch right now?”

Oliver shrugs his one good shoulder. “Why the hell not, Flint. You said so yourself – we’re good.” His lips twitch a bit into a small smile.

“Never said you were any good.” Marcus sneers.

“I know what I heard.”

Marcus bites the side of his cheek.

“Bulgaria has Krum. But Ireland’s Chasers are strong, as per usual. Might knock them out if they meet before the final.” He finally settles on, running through the last time he’d read scoring statistics, and watched Krum in the air. It’s not so bad, Marcus guesses, talking Quidditch. It’s common ground. Tentative. Nothing more or less than the game and that keeps the thoughts at bay.

“Lynch took a pretty hard hit the last game, against Egypt? Don’t know if you heard-”

“Who do you take me for? ‘Course I heard.” Marcus snorts again.

Oliver lets out a bark of laughter. “And you say I’m obsessed.”

“You are. Nobody else runs their team into the ground during practice like you do, for god’s sakes.”

Oliver runs his free hand through damp brown hair, and Marcus eyes the way the fingers tangle in the strands, adamantly trying not to picture how those hands would look tangled in his own hair.

“Yeah, well.” Oliver swallows, eyes glittering in the dim light. “We need to win.”

“‘We’ or you?” Marcus can’t help asking.

Wood doesn’t grace him with an answer to that one, instead taking the thread of conversation back about Ireland, lamenting the fact that England is _weak this year, won’t make it past semis if they’re lucky, Flint, it’s a tragedy,_ and Marcus can’t help nodding along, debating, combatting with statistics, talking strategy – it’s all so natural because Quidditch is what they live and breathe for. The competition, the pitch, flying and scoring, and _winning_ ; it’s as much in their blood as their inherent Houses.

Quidditch is safe ground – anything past that and Marcus fears, is terrified, that he’ll spin out of control.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been, except Oliver’s eyes are drooping slightly, head leaned back on the infirmary pillow by the time Pomfrey comes back to scan him over. No injuries, of course, no real risk of getting sick.

Wood gives a low chuckle as Marcus sends a glare at Pomfrey’s retreating back. “Who would’ve known we could carry a conversation without trying to kill one another?”

Marcus can’t help laugh, little choked in the way it gets out but Oliver’s grinning as well. He’s about to respond, say that it’s only because Pomfrey’s probably watching with her eyes of a hawk so that he can’t bash the Keeper’s head in, but when he turns, Oliver’s eyes are closed and face smooth with sleep.

He can’t seem to move his tired body – his shoulders ache, as well as the muscles in his back from sitting against the hard wooden chair. Instead he just stares at the paleness of Wood’s skin. The Gryffindor Captain looks exhausted, dark circles more prominent now that his face isn’t shifting with emotions.

Probably working himself to the bone to get the Quidditch Cup. And yeah, Marcus likes winning, likes one-upping people, but he’s got his eyes set on the black and white of the Magpies’ jersey. If the Cup comes along with it, he enters the team on a high. If not – so be it. They're at the top of the league, after all, and winning there is more significant than here at Hogwarts.

Wood mumbles something in his sleep, and before Marcus can think, he’s tugging the slipping sheets covering Wood’s body back into place. His entire body thrums with want, wants to reach out and _touch_ , gently almost, and that’s too foreign for him to process. It blazes through his chest like Firewhiskey.

Because Marcus Flint has always been mean and rough and tough and that’s always been perfectly fine with him. But for some reason looking at Wood makes him want to curl up around him and press his face into the curve of the Keeper’s neck, and at that, Marcus knows he’s royally fucked. 

So he runs. Emotions aren’t meant to be dealt with, they’re to be beaten down, compartmentalized, stored away where nobody can see them. He’s seen too many of his housemates be too brash and caught up in it - hell, Malfoy’s known for his dramatics, and his cousin Parkinson isn’t much better – so he storms out of the hospital wing before he allows himself to reach out and cradle Oliver Wood’s cheek.

His heart doesn’t stop pounding long until he’s laid beneath his bed covers, staring blankly into the dark.

***

If there’s one thing that Marcus is absolutely sure he’s good at, it’s destruction. It’s what shuts down his thoughts, gets the job done, because there’s really nothing left to do when there’s nothing left to save, right? Whether it’s shooting Bludgers so the opposing Chaser is knocked off the pitch, or punching the lights out of some snotty Ravenclaw who thinks they _know better_ , he’s good at it, he’s effective, and he doesn’t stop until it’s _done._

But a week after talking to Oliver Wood in the Hospital Wing, and he still can’t bring himself to destroy the little bit of hope stirring in his gut – whenever he catches the Keeper’s eye in the Great Hall, whenever he brushes past him when Slytherin and Gryffindor switch off for the pitch. Can’t shove it down, crush it into the mud, can’t look at Wood’s face for longer than two seconds before wanting to both punch him and kiss him.

So he takes the next route of action. Skips the classes they have together, takes the long route to the pitch, even if it makes his team angry that he’s late (they still won’t say shit because Captaincy overrides all else). Avoids going to dinner when he knows Wood will be there, laughing with Johnson and the Weasleys and the rest of that bloody golden team.

Flitwick holds him back one day after Charms, even with Marcus’s best efforts to get to the Great Hall before the Gryffindor crowd does. Flitwick waits for the rest of the class to mill out slowly, before finally gesturing for Marcus to approach his perch. Marcus eyes the tiny man in front of him, disgruntled.

“I understand the rigors of Quidditch, Mr. Flint. But your Charm work has been terribly lacking recently, and the last essay was, dare I say, abysmal.” Flitwick shakes his head a little, wisps of white hair swaying. “If this continues, perhaps it would be best if I assigned you remedial help-”

“Thanks but no thanks.” Marcus says, and he shoulders his bag and strolls out of the classroom.

“Mr. Flint!” Flitwick calls after him, but he could really give a rat’s ass about Charms. Doesn’t want to have to sit through Percy Weasley’s sniveling while tutoring, which is what will inevitably occur if he accepts remedial help. God, he’s got his pride left.

It’s too late by the time he gets to the Great Hall, Wood already surrounded by his group of friends, and Marcus grits his teeth as the now familiar laugh makes its way to his ears even with the chattering all around him. He can’t pull off the dine-and-dash he’s done for the past week or so, and is going to have to make do with being in the Great Hall at the same time as Wood.

He plops down next to Adrian with a groan, not even paying attention to what he’s piling onto his plate.

“How nice of you to join us.” Adrian simpers.

“Shut your trap.” Marcus says back through a mouthful of sandwich. Pucey snickers besides him, draping an amicable arm around Marcus’s hunched up shoulders.

His fellow Chaser pops a grape into his mouth. “Seem a bit tense these days, Marcus, and that’s saying something.”

Terence Higgs looks up from where his head had been previously buried in a textbook. “Whole of Slytherin’s been giving you a wide berth. Wider than usual I mean.” Higgs finishes with a small smile.

“What’d I say about shutting up?” Marcus shrugs Adrian’s arm off from around him, causing his friend’s elbow to smash into the table. Adrian hisses at the impact and Terence laughs, once again behind his book.

“Fuck’s sake, Marcus. Acting like an asshole isn’t going to get you Wood.” Adrian hisses underneath his breath. Marcus stiffens, eyes darting around to make sure nobody else has heard.

He shoves Adrian roughly. “You’re a delusional bastard.”

Adrian shoves him right back. “I know pining and sulking when I see it.” Terence looks up with raised eyebrows this time, as Adrian had spoken slightly louder than normal. Marcus shoves the remaining bits of his sandwich into his friend’s face as payback.

Higgs eyes Marcus warily, simultaneously handing a napkin to Adrian, who’s spluttering as a piece of lettuce goes up his nose. “What poor soul is Flint going after?”

“No one.”

“Really? Because that blush you got going on there seems to say indicate something different.” Terence grins cheekily, dodging Marcus’s reach across the table with ease.

Adrian resurfaces from wiping the last bits of sandwich from his face. “Honestly, Flint, if you’re going to be this way, I might as well tell him myself.”

Marcus’s eyes flicker over to where Oliver’s talking animatedly with the Gryffindor Chasers over some formation, if the waving of his hands and enthusiastic expression was to be taken at face value. He tries to shove Adrian off his seat, but with no avail, because while Adrian is slightly shorter than he is, he’s also too accustomed to Marcus’s tactics for them to really have any impact.

Terence doesn’t miss Marcus’s moment of weakness, and he scans Wood now chatting with Percy Weasley, before turning back to his former Captain with a wicked grin. “Well, I suppose that explains a lot. So naïve of me to think that the reason you gripped each other’s hands so hard was because of rivalry.”

Marcus throws his fork down, groaning and deciding, fuck it, as Adrian and Terence burst into peals of laughter. He’ll go hungry tonight for all he cares, if it means he can get out of the Great Hall right this very moment, far from his so-called friends.

He’s not sulking. No matter what Adrian says. And there’s no way in hell he’s ever talking to Oliver Wood again.

“C’mon, Flint!” Higgs calls after him, but he throws them the finger over his shoulder and heads to the library, somewhere where his friends are guaranteed not to try and find him. (Because, let’s be real, how many times has he stepped foot in that blasted place?)

Everyone’s still at dinner, though, so it’s pretty empty, save for that one friend of Harry Potter’s.

Marcus grabs a couple of Quidditch magazines to flip through, and he might as well work on some of the Slytherin plays if he’s stuck here – no point looking over charms, really, when he’s always just been naturally shit at them. Flitwick can go stuff himself, he thinks miserably. It’s raining terribly outside, bullets pelting down with horrendous force, and he’d much rather be outside trying out these plays instead of poking at x’s and o’s with his wand on a scrap of parchment. But beggars can’t be choosers.

The hours gotten late by the time Marcus finishes his stack of magazines, and he’s pretty sure that Adrian and Terence have gotten the bloody hint that he’s not interested in their meddling. He’s packing to leave, as the library is getting annoying, stuffy and boring. Pince is glaring at at his feet on the table, and Potter’s walking dictionary friend is muttering angrily under her breath with quill moving at top speed. The scritch scratch of her writing heightens the dull ache behind his eyes.

“Found you." 

And Marcus curses vehemently at the voice, because it’s the one that’s been plaguing his thoughts. Oliver Wood stands in front of his table, school shirt pulled tighter around his lean form due to his tightly crossed arms.

Marcus shoves his chair back. “Fuck off, Wood.”

“No, I’ve got something to say to you.”

The brunet trails after Marcus out the library, even as Marcus purposely goes through the darkest, dingiest corridors to get to the Slytherin dungeons.

“For Merlin’s sake, would you cool it with the brooding, and just talk like a normal person?” Oliver calls, still pattering behind him, trying to keep up with Marcus’s long strides.

Marcus turns so abruptly, Wood runs into him. “Fine, you want to talk? The match next week.” Marcus snarls before Oliver can say anything, suddenly remembering Malfoy’s simpering the other day after he showed up to practice with a sling around his arm, “We’re not playing.”

Oliver gapes, mind momentarily taken away from whatever it was he was prepared to talk to Marcus about.

“What do you mean you’re not playing? You’re _forfeiting_ -”

“Not forfeiting, you fucking dimwit, Malfoy’s got his arm all cut up. Can’t play with an injured Seeker can we?” And he forces a nasty grin at the sight of Wood’s face steadily turning red in anger. “You’ll be playing Hufflepuff.”

“Hufflepuff?! Bloody hell, we’ve been practicing for Slytherin tactics! We’re not prepared for Diggory’s team! This isn’t fair, Flint!”

Marcus sneers back at Wood’s glare. “Who said I played fair? Have fun playing in that hell storm next weekend.” Lightning crashes right outside the first floor window as if to emphasize his point. Oliver’s face is thunderous as it’s illuminated.

“Scared of a little rain, are you, Flint?” Wood’s voice is bitter – the Keeper isn’t yelling anymore, but he’s still glaring daggers at Marcus, who’s now restless to get as far away as possible.

“M’not fucking scared, you bastard.” He snarls, face too close to Oliver’s, too caught up in the rage and hostility that's thrumming through his body. Marcus veers back jerkily when he realizes (a-fucking-gain) how close their faces are.

Oliver’s face is stony, just as closed off as it was in the Hospital Wing, and Marcus wills away the sense of déjà vu.

“No - you’re terrified.” Wood says quietly, before turning on his heel and storming back towards Gryffindor tower.

He leaves Marcus frozen in the empty corridor to come to terms that maybe, maybe when he’d called Marcus terrified, Wood hadn’t been talking about Quidditch.

*** 

Gryffindor loses, because Potter can’t stay on his broom long enough to catch the snitch. Even Diggory looks apologetic at the sad way they won, but Hufflepuff did, fair and square. Marcus would normally be grinning with glee over the loss, but this time he really can’t bring himself to care. His chest seems to be permanently stuck on hollow, even with the hoots and hollers that surround him in the Slytherin common room.

Wood looks absolutely miserable the days following the match – “Thought he’d reached rock bottom last year, but apparently you can get lower.” Montague snickers at dinner, before Marcus cuffs the back of his head into his soup. 

“That’ll be you if we don’t win against Ravenclaw next match.”

Montague splutters as pea soup drips down his chin. “I’m not going to look like I’m two steps away from death.”

Marcus grins nastily. “You will, once I get through with you.” And he leaves Montague to grimace over his Chasing skills with the rest of the team, instead stalking his way out to the pitch for some peace and quiet. Mother Nature seems to have loved taking the mickey out of Gryffindor, as the storms have let up almost immediately after the last match.

Probably the salt in Wood’s wounds, Marcus thinks.

He’s almost made it out into the courtyard when he’s jerked back harshly by the shoulder.

“What the fuck-”

“Shut your sodding mouth and listen, for once in your life, alright?” Wood says, before hauling Marcus boldly into the nearest empty classroom. It’s a small one, often used for Charms practice, and Oliver pats his hands on his robes after closing the door, dust flitting off in little trickles.

Marcus is kind of in shock that Oliver Wood just manhandled him someplace, and it _should not be turning him on at all_. He stands rigidly in the front of the room as Wood casts a locking spell on the door.

“What the fuck is that for?”

“Keeps you from running away,” Oliver says shortly, “I can tell you’ve been avoiding me, Flint.”

Marcus’s lips curl into a grimace before he can help himself. “Haven’t.”

“Don’t bloody lie. Normally you’d be all up in my face, mocking me about how pathetic of a Captain I am! You haven’t so much as spat in my direction.” Oliver sighs, running a hand through already tussled brown hair.

“Do you want me spitting at you?” Marcus asks incredulously, ill-footed and completely confused as to why Wood had pulled him in here complaining, of all things, of not being pushed around.

Oliver snorts unattractively. “No. No, for fuck’s sake-” The Gryffindor Keeper takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself, before asking -

“Do you want me?”

Marcus’s mind shorts out.

Wood stands there with his arms crossed casually across his chest, feigning nonchalance. Marcus feels like the ground is spinning under his feet, even though said feet are leaden and dead weight against the stone. He doesn’t know why Oliver even bothered to lock the door, when Marcus was definitely in no condition to run, even if he tried.

“You’re mad.” Is all Marcus manages. His heart has jumped up into his throat, and wouldn’t this be a pathetic way to die, choking on his own tongue because he couldn’t string enough words together in the face of one pretty boy Gryffindor.

But Wood presses on as if he hasn’t heard Marcus’s choked reply. “I think you do. I know you do, actually, because Pucey told me.”

Marcus makes a note to _murder Adrian in his sleep_.

“Pucey’s a fucking liar, doesn’t know what he’s saying half the time-” Marcus splutters, as Oliver takes a step closer to him, cutting his panicked tirade off.

“And opposed to my better judgment, I want you as well.” Oliver says simply, as if discussing weather conditions, but his eyes are blazing the same way they do when he’s defending the hoops. Sun shining, hair a mess, passionate and a little too blindingly brilliant for Marcus to look directly at.

Marcus blinks a couple of times at the Gryffindor waiting expectantly in front of him.

“You’re mad.” He repeats.

Wood smiles. “Probably.” And then he tugs Marcus down by the collar and crashes his lips onto Marcus’, hard, unyielding, and brutal, and god, Marcus just wants to _hurt him._

So he does.

It’s not graceful or pretty, their first kiss. It’s all harsh biting and messy clacks, teeth and tongue cutting each other, and Marcus is pretty sure he’s split Oliver’s lip open by biting down on it. But what else is there to expect from six years of duking it out on the Quidditch pitch?

They’re not them if they’re not competing for something, anything, and Marcus knows he’s fucked. His entire life is about competition and now there’s this guy who will give it to him right back. The Keeper is clutching at his robes like he can read Marcus’s thoughts: Oliver Wood isn’t going anywhere.

Marcus moves his mouth down to Oliver’s neck, scent of leather and the Quidditch pitch and just _Oliver_ , overlaying into an intoxicating mixture. He sucks harshly below Wood’s jaw and Oliver gives a throaty laugh, shuddering slightly underneath the Slytherin Chaser’s tight grip.

“God, are all Slytherins this slow, or is it just you?” Oliver bites out, before Marcus growls and reclaims his mouth.

He can taste the metallic tang of blood in Oliver’s mouth but it doesn’t seem like either of them care that much. Wood knows what the fuck he’s doing, Marcus realizes, as the Keeper does something with his tongue that promises dirty pleasure. That causes the roil of jealousy to curl up within Marcus’s chest - who else has Wood kissed like this? -  so he continues to push harder, kiss longer, to try to wring out all the noises he’s been imagining for weeks from Oliver’s pliant mouth.

His hands are moving of their own volition, and then all that glorious pale skin is smooth and warm beneath his fingertips, thumb tracing the dip of Oliver’s hip with a slow graze. He feels rather than hears Oliver’s purr of pleasure.

“What,” Marcus’s throat seems stuck, and he tries again, “What do you want?”

Oliver doesn’t grace him with an answer. For a moment, Marcus thinks he’s spoken out of turn, until the brunet drops to his knees and unzips Marcus’s trousers. The Keeper looks up, grin sharp and white and promising in the dim classroom.

Marcus’s mouth dries.

“Wood,” he starts, but then a hot wet mouth is sealing over the head of his cock and it takes everything in him to bite back a loud moan. This is something he’s only ever imagined, flights of fancy that have turned over and over in his head, but now he’s got Oliver Wood on his knees about to give him, if the way the brunet is looking up at him indicates anything, the blowjob of his life.

He threads his hands through Oliver’s hair, as the Keeper starts sucking him down, throwing his head back so it rests against the cold stone wall behind him. He hadn’t even realized he’d been this hard, just from a few well placed kisses and Wood’s dirty mouth, and god, this boy is too much trouble for this to be worth it, but it’s _good_. So good, because Oliver is running his tongue against the vein on the underside of his cock, and it’s tight and hot, and pleasure is curling in the pit of his stomach too quickly.

Oliver’s sucking gently, teasing, and Marcus can’t keep his hips from jolting forward, earning a choking noise and a glare from the Keeper. Firm hands hold his hips down, and then Oliver is swallowing him down with even more fervor, moaning around Marcus’s cock, and the vibrations shoot through him straight to his spine. His own hand is rooted into brown strands, and he’s probably tugging too roughly, but if the little content noises flooding his ears are to be taken point blankly, Wood likes it rough.

No surprise.

A wicked tongue teases his slit, lapping at the tip, and then at the lightest scrape of teeth, Marcus feels himself unraveling, orgasm hitting and he only barely muffles his groan with his own fist before spilling into Oliver’s eager mouth.

Marcus hauls Oliver back by his hair, and the sight that meets his eyes has him choking back a sound – mussed brown hair, dark blazing eyes, and lips rubbed and bitten raw from Marcus’s own mouth. A bit of blood is dribbling from where the Keeper’s bottom lip has been split open, so Marcus hauls him up and just _licks._

The hard line of Oliver’s erection is pressing into his hip, and he shifts one of his legs between the Keeper’s and presses forward.

Oliver’s broken moan resounds in the empty classroom.

“Fucking-” The Keeper bites out before he pushes his hips forward harshly, rutting quickly against Marcus’s thigh. Marcus attaches his mouth to Oliver’s neck, biting, marking, and urging the brunet in front of him to keep going. He’s clawing at the creamy skin of the other boy’s back, hell bent on leaving his mark. Oliver hisses at his touch, torso arching as his hips keep rolling.

“C’mon, Wood.” Marcus mutters before biting down deliberately on Oliver’s earlobe. The Keeper stiffens then shudders against him, breathy “oh” falling from his lips as his eyes flutter shut. And no overactive imagination of Marcus’ can compare to what Oliver looks like at the height of his pleasure.

Oliver is flushed, hair sticking up in all directions as he casts a quick cleaning charm over the both of them. He’s staring directly at Marcus, eyes bright in the darkened room, and it’s too intense, too much for Marcus to look at directly. He tries to jolt away now that the adrenaline and the lust has started fading from his head, but Wood shoves him back against the wall, and Marcus, to his own horror, _lets him._

“Don’t.” Is all Oliver mutters, before he’s kissing Marcus again, less dirty but still just as harshly as before. Marcus’s brain shorts out and all that he knows is the taste and feel of Oliver against him. It’s heady, and his stomach jolts as the Keeper nips at his lips. He could stay there all day, in a little dusty classroom, if it meant that Oliver Wood would keep on kissing him.

Emotions are a load of bollocks.

Marcus draws himself away, self-control fighting against the need to _kiss_ and _press_ and _take_.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” He spits out, unable to meet Wood’s eyes, and he tries to make his feet move, he really does, except they’re still leaden and glued to the floor and Oliver’s still watching him with that singularly focused gaze the man usually reserves for Quidditch.

“I won’t.” Oliver says, and he reaches out almost tentatively for Marcus’s hand. They’re a couple centimeters from conjoining before he stops, as if waiting for Marcus to pull away.

Marcus’s resolve crumbles at the sight of Oliver’s face – not asking for anything, just waiting.

“Just this once.” Marcus mutters, and he feels himself leaning into that magnetic pull between them, lets Oliver’s body mold to his own.

As Oliver’s lips trace along his jawline, Marcus convinces himself that once he fulfills this _want_ that's taken root deep in his spine, it’ll disappear.

It’s a nice delusion, he supposes.

***

The next day, Marcus pulls Oliver into an empty broom closet in between Potions and Transfiguration, and presses himself viciously close. The Gryffindor Keeper doesn’t even flinch at Marcus’s fist gripping the front of his robes.

“This doesn’t mean anything.” Marcus tries, sneer already present on his lips, a gut reflex.

“Sure.” Oliver says

They both know that Marcus is lying.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!
> 
> (I honestly meant for it to be a short drabble but then it got quite out of hand - there's just something about these two)


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